Alternate Ending To Badon Hill
by Cerotoro
Summary: An alternate ending to the movie in which Tristan lives. T for violence. Oneshot.


Alternate Ending To Badon Hill

AN: Okay, this one is for I Love Tristan fans who watched his final battle and yelled "AIM FOR THE MIDDLE!" at that crucial point…and then slumped in despair when he chose to take his sword instead. In honor of your Tristan-obsessed hearts (and mine), this is my ALTERNATE ENDING TO BADON HILL. (I think the movie alternate ending was rather pointless. After all, they didn't even change anything.)

Disclaimer: Sadly, King Arthur and characters don't belong to me. If they did, I wouldn't have gone and made an ass out of the whole movie by killing the two best characters. But, hey, always knew film producers had pig intestines for brains. (Grins) I actually liked most of the movie, including Lancelot's death (hides behind Dagonet to avoid rotten vegetables and fatally heavy objects), but Tristan's death just ruined the whole thing for me. And Dagonet's death was absolutely pointless; there was NO NEED to kill Dagonet. In fact, he should have lived, and killed the saxon. But hey, you've heard enough ranting. Enjoy!

_Italics-_Tristan's thoughts

Tristan patted his horse's neck and looked at his friends. He could sense what the others were thinking; they all shared one thought. _ARTHUR_. They exchanged glances, all of them struggling with the same hard decision. Their commander and brother, or their freedom? Tristan looked into their eyes, then at his hawk. Freedom or Arthur? Isolde was such a beautiful creature. She was his closest friend, his hunting and scouting companion, the one who took the place of a human mate for him.

She stared back at him with solemn eyes. He'd talked to her many times, and though she was only a hawk, he sometimes felt sure she understood his meanings if not his words. She symbolized his longing for freedom, freedom to live the life he was meant to live. And as he gazed at her, he made his decision. He looked around at the others, and saw that they had made theirs. He looked at Isolde one last time.

"Hey". He clicked his tongue, "You are free." She leaped from his hand and flew away. He watched her go, thinking _At least one of us is free._ He looked at his friends and they all gazed at each other, knowing their decision, and yet finding it so hard to make. Bors looked at his children and Vanora. Gilly waved goodbye. Lancelot nodded slowly, smiling. Galahad grinned, shaking his head. As one, without needing words, they urged their horses to the side of the road and watched the wagons pass. Bors gazed after the wagon holding his family with longing.

They stopped the arms wagon and pulled out their heavy armor. Tristan shrugged quickly into his breastplate and checked each of the hidden throwing knives. He pulled his bow from the weapon racks and drew it, checking the string, and filling his quiver with arrows. He had Bors tie the ties on his back, securing his armor. He retrieved his helmet, and his horse's armor, and quickly armored the beast. It was with regret that he put away his hawking equipment.

_Perhaps_, _If I live, I could make a career out of that. If I live._ All was done; he mounted his horse and waited. Gawain struck the side of the wagon, then mounted. The driver urged the horses, and the wagon pulled away. Then, as the last people passed by, they urged their horses to a canter and headed swiftly back toward Arthur. He was surprised, to say the least, to see them ride up in full heavy battle armor, and ready to fight. He even protested ("You are free men! Go, and live your freedom!"), but was glad they were there. He briefly outlined his battle plan, and they headed for the hill.

"I've been thinking" Tristan mused as they rode, "About what I'll do now that I'm a free man. Most of my skills require a battlefield. I've made death an art, but I won't exactly be able to kill people in Sarmatia. There's little to no reason to fight there. No one there will need a guide, and I don't want to hunt for a living."

"Why not?" Galahad grinned, "You could practice those moves of yours on some poor, defenseless deer." Tristan ignored him.

"So I was thinking" he continued, "That I could take up hawking as a career. It wouldn't be too hard to train several birds at a time, and well-trained birds would bring in good prices."

"Sounds pleasant. Where would you live?" queried Bors.

"Alone" Tristan replied, "They destroyed my village when they took me, so I've no home to return to. And I've no patience for family life."

"You really ought to get a woman. Besides, one or two kids wouldn't be so bad. You don't have to have a dozen, like Bors." Tristan shook his head.

"Kids" he said, "I've killed too many to deserve my own."

"A bunch of little Tristans. Now there's a scary thought!" Gawain chuckled, "I fear for any who become the enemy of your progeny."

"Let's just hope none of them inherit his face" Galahad quipped. They sat at the bottom of the hill while Lancelot rode up with Arthur. They looked at each other, tense, yet calm. _If this is the end, it'll be a good one. _As one, they urged their horses to a gallop, thundering up the hill to Arthur's side. Tristan tightened his grip on his long horse-headed pointy-bottomed ceremonial stick thing (If you have any idea what those are supposed to be called, please review and tell me!). Together they sat, staring at the saxon army. Arthur urged his horse to pace in front of them.

"Knights, the gift of freedom is yours by rights" he declared, eyes flashing, "But the home we seek resides not in some distant land. It is in us, and in our actions on this day!" A small contingent of Saxons was marching towards the open gate, yelling some foul battle cry. As they approached, Tristan realized something he'd refused to see before.

What was he going home to? There _was_ no home for him to return to. His home was here, amongst the hawks and the tall trees, with his brothers. Sarmatia held nothing for him. The only reason he was leaving Britian was to get away from the Romans. But the Romans had left. Now that the Romans were gone, he had no reason to leave. He could hawk here better than in Sarmatia. And he knew this land. Sarmatia was strange to him. He could barely remember it.

_If I live through this, perhaps I'll stay, and work for Arthur. I'm sure he could find some use for my skills. Home. I guess I have a place, after all. _

"If this be our destiny, then let be so!" Arthur gazed fiercely at each of the knights in turn "But let history remember, that as free men we chose to make it so!" He fell back into line and drew Excalibur, thrusting it high in the air.

"Rus!" Tristan roared with his brothers, thrusting his horse-headed stick in the air. Gawain hurled his into the ground, where it stuck standing upright. Galahad did the same, then Lancelot, then Bors, then Tristan. Then he selected an arrow from his quiver and set it to the string of his powerful bow. He urged his horse out and the to turn sideways, and took up the T position. He pointed it up to make it easier to pull full draw, then swung it down and around, out toward the Saxons. He aimed, then swung it up a few inches for distance, and loosed. He watched as it shot over the wall and embedded itself in the spy hiding in the tree.

The traitor was dead before he hit the ground. Tristan turned his horse and led the way to the battle position. Sitting on a slight rise at the other end of the battle field, Tristan watched with cold calculation, and a bit of dark amusement, as the Saxons charged through the door, roaring, and slowed to stand there staring around them at the supposedly empty battlefield. As planned, when the last of the Saxons were through, the men hidden in the gatehouse closed the massive gates.

Several of the Saxons looked fearfully over their shoulders at the now closed gate and made gestures that were obviously to ward off demons, or whatever tales Saxons believed. Tristan almost laughed. Superstitious idiots. No matter where you went in the world, people were terrified of some ghost story or other. Even some of his brothers tended towards such things, like Dagonet and his Inish, and Arthur and his devil. Ridiculous.

The Saxons were moving again, advancing cautiously, eyes wide. From where he stood, Tristan could look at the woods and see the Woads preparing to fire the first volley of arrows. When the arrows hit the Saxons, that would be the knights' cue to charge the Saxons. Arthur's plan was simple, but brilliant. They would utilize the thick smoke to hide from the Saxons, charging at them from it, then disappearing into it again, then charging again, and so on until the Saxons were dead. The woads would fire a volley between each charge. Simple, and brutally efficient.

The woads fired the first volley. The sounds the thousands of arrows made as they flew through the air caused more superstitious gestures among the Saxons, and not a single fur-covered idiot soldier realized what was happening until the arrows crashed down on them. Tristan unsheathed his sword and thundered toward the line of men. The knights had separated to have several yards between each, so as to smash a broad line of destruction.

Tristan lifted his sword and charged out of the mist and plowed through the line, swinging his sword to slash a man open from hip to collarbone as he passed. Bors yelled something savage, but he wasn't listening. He guided his horse in a tight turn and listened for the telltale hiss of arrows. There! He urged his horse to a gallop and smashed through the line, gutting a praying, whimpering saxon with a quick backhand slash of his sword. Arthur gave a hand signal; break up and attack at will.

Tristan urged his horse along the edge of the line till he was clear, then went around so he was facing their unguarded backs. He dropped his sword into its two-thirds saddle sheath, and drew his bow. Calmly, he galloped along behind the line, picking off men until he was out of arrows. He put his bow back in its saddle case, redrew his sword, and played ghost, darting from the smoke, killing a man and disappearing back into it. He enjoyed this. He enjoyed the terror on their faces. He smirked every time he saw a saxon muttering a prayer as he held up a shield or crossbow with shaking hands. It made him feel strong. It made him feel powerful. He was becoming an Inish, for Dagonet.

His sword streamed blood, and his horse's legs were covered in it. There were just a few left now. He went through the line at a slant, getting a second man with the backswing from killing the first. As he turned, a brief clearing of the smoke showed a lone saxon fleeing toward the gate. Arthur rode up swiftly and cut the man down mercilessly. Tristan trotted over to his brothers.

Arthur galloped past and they followed, back to their rise. A woad waited there with a quiverful of arrows for Tristan. Tristan nodded his thanks. When the woad had gone, Tristan raised his eyebrows at Arthur.

"Don't thank me" Arthur smiled, "Thank Merlin." Tristan followed his gaze to the painted leader atop the hill overlooking the battlefield. Merlin was watching them.

Tristan lifted his hand in acknowledgement of the leader's gift. On the whole, the bow was his favorite weapon. Merlin turned away, to supervise his people.

"Right, any injured?" Arthur looked at his men. They all shook their heads.

"We are Inish" Tristan said, "We are invincible." The knights looked at each other, breifly remembering Dagonet.

"For Dagonet!" Caught by surprise, the knights jumped at Bors fierce cry. Galahad nearly fell out of his saddle. Gawain grabbed his shoulder guard to steady him.

"Save it for combat Bors" Arthur teased, "It's so much more intimidating if the enemy can actually hear it." For a brief moment, they relaxed. Then the Saxons outside the gate started yelling their battle cry, and reality returned. They all turned to face the gate. Tristan took a cloth from behind his saddle and wiped his blade clean, then slipped it in its sheath on his back. He dropped the cloth and removed the saddle sheath and dropped it to the ground as well. If he lived, he could come back for them. If he didn't, it wouldn't matter.

He selected an arrow from his full quiver and knocked it, ready to draw. "Good arrows" he noted. The first Saxons charged through the gate and slowed, looking around. The whole army spilled in behind them. Arthur lifted Excalibur. The woads loosed a volley of fire arrows. Tristan fired with them. Arthur spurred his horse forward, and the knights charged. Tristan fired, knocked, and fired again. Then they were amongst the Saxon horde, and Tristan's firing became automatic.

For perhaps an hour he fired, occasionally stealing arrows from enemy archers. At one point he executed a move that he was quite proud of. He slung himself down to the ground an pushed himself back up, twisting as he went, kicking a man in the face and nabbing his quiver. He also happened to drag him several feet, until woad sliced the quiver strap. Now he was out of arrows, and rather tired of shooting.

He was the only knight still on horseback. He recalled seeing Gawain shot off; the only other knight he could see right now was Arthur. Letting his gaze roam, he took in the battle. It looked good for Arthur's side, overall. His eyes found the Saxon leader as the bearded giant hacked down a woad. He narrowed his eyes, making a decision. Urging his horse over, he dismounted near the Saxon and let the horse go. Calmly, he drew his sword and advanced. A Saxon trapped by a pike snarled at him. He paused to cut his throat.

Approaching the Saxon, he noted the battleaxe he wielded. It would take some skill to beat that with his sword. However, when the Saxon noticed his approach, he threw aside the battleaxe and drew his sword. Tristan approached, sword at the ready. He paused a foot away, then attacked swiftly and without warning. The Saxon parried, then attacked. They exchanged blows rapidly for a minute, then paused and drew apart, remeasuring each other. This time, the saxon attacked first. They rapidly parried and cut, searching for an opening. As Tristan whirled and parried, the Saxon stabbed his right side with a knife.

Quickly, Tristan stepped back. He felt under his arm and checked his hand. Blood. It didn't feel serious, though. He returned his sword to ready, re-engaged the saxon, and ignored the light pain in his side. Several minutes of sparring led to a stalemate. Abruptly, the saxon employed his damnable knife again, cutting his leg, and then the back left of his head. Tristan fell and quickly scrambled back, holding his head with one hand and keeping his sword pointed at the saxon with the other. His head throbbed sharply from the blow. The saxon tilted his head to the side as he leaned forward slightly, in a mockery of concern.

Inside, anger throbbed, but Tristan refused to give in to it. Anger would just get him killed. Quickly, he diagnosed himself. He was tiring, out of breath, bleeding, and sore. He was beginning to realize his odds of surviving were low. No matter. He would fight to the death. Swiftly, he surged to his feet, attacking. The saxon parried easily. _Bastard isn't even breathing hard._ He attacked again, and the saxon parried and sliced his left arm. The sword fell from his grip, and he stumbled backwards. His eyes fell to the sword, lying at the saxon's feet.

He reached to his chestplate and removed one of his hidden throwing knives from it's sheath. The saxon looked thoughtfully at Tristan's sword, then slipped his toe under it and flipped it to Tristan's feet. Tristan bent slowly to retrieve his sword, and whipped it up in a quick attack. The saxon blocked. A brief series of quick cuts followed, then the saxon stabbed his knife deep into Tristan's arm and left it there. Tristan fell, his injured arm under him, exhausted, from his injuries and from defeat.

Reaching for time, he began slowly half-crawling, half-dragging himself away from the saxon. The arm under his body was hidden from the saxon's view; he wiggled a throwing knife out of its sheath as he crawled, and summoned his remaining energy. He might not be able to stop the saxon killing him, but he would leave his mark. The saxon would remember him! Heavy steps behind him warned of the Saxon's approach. He fell still, sliding his left arm nearer his right.

A hand curled through his hair, and yanked him upright, painfully. The saxon looked at him thoughtfully. "My name is Tristan." Tristan heard himself speaking as from a great distance; he was deep inside himself, summoning his last vestiges of power for his final stand. "You will…remember it." The saxon stared at him, surprised. Then he rammed Tristan's sword deep into his left side. After several moments of dizzying pain, he removed it, twisting as he pulled. Tristan gasped, letting his head fall back to stare at the sky. He realized he no longer could summon the strength to mark the big saxon.

A clear, beautiful screech echoed over the battlefield. Tristan, looking at the sky, saw Isolde circling overhead. She returned even though he'd freed her. She _chose_ to be with him. And suddenly, he had the strength. He twisted, rising from his knees, yanking the knife from his right arm and embedding it in the saxon's hip, using it for leverage to help him rise to his feet, and planted his throwing dagger in the shocked saxon's right eye. For a split second, all the world seemed frozen. Then the saxon dropped Tristan's sword, and struck him on the shoulder, throwing him bodily away from him. Tristan fell hard, and felt something in his shoulder snap.

A red haze washed over his vision. However, he could still see the writhing saxon staggering back with both hands over his face. It was a sweet sight. The saxon was feeling the hilt carefully now, and Tristan silently wished him infection in the wound. His hands were dirty, so it was a high possibility. With a rather nasty noise and a groan of pain, the saxon removed the knife from his ruined eye. What was left behind was a bloody, pulpy crater that looked extremely painful. After another moment of face-clutching, the saxon snatched his sword from the ground where he had stuck it and advanced angrily towards him.

Standing over him, the saxon raised his sword high in the air and tensed to bring it down. Tristan wearily closed his eyes, and waited for the blow, and peace. His hawk, he knew, would leave if he was dead. There would be no one to stay for. He took peace in the knowledge that his death would fully free his hawk. Isolde deserved it. Overhead a slight _whish_ as the blade cleaved the air on its deadly intercept with his neck…and a clang as it was stopped short by another. No blow struck his neck. Opening his eyes, he saw Excalibur blocking the saxon sword, and Arthur gazing fiercely at the saxon.

"I have come to deliver your fate, Saxon! Make ready for it!" He cried, and slipped his blade swiftly towards the saxon's side. The saxon disentangled and backed away, keeping his left side toward Arthur. The red haze thickened briefly over his vision, and when it cleared, the saxon was dead and Arthur was setting his sword by his side. Isolde had landed sometime during his lapse of senses, because she was sitting by his head, gently preening his hair. Arthur checked his side and back, then leaned forward and gently placed one hand beside his face.

"Tristan, can you hear me?" he asked, "If you can, give a response. Anything." Tristan stared up at him and gave the most serious sarcastic response he could think of. "I'm going to… kill that…that bloody saxon" he croaked, "Over…and over. Painfully." "For you or him?" Arthur mused, then he went serious. "You're going to be okay, Tristan. I swear it. You're going to be okay." The last thing Tristan heard was Arthur whistling to his horse.

Tristan opened his eyes to a small, clean room filled with bright sunlight. The sunlight streamed through several windows located on the wall beside his bed and the wall perpendicular to his bed, as well as a couple large skylights that showed a view of a clear blue sky. Looking around, he saw little except a fireplace and a sturdy table, and a tall wooden perch. It was empty. Tristan sighed. If this was death, it truly wasn't so bad. He sat up wearily and slung his feet to the floor. He was barefoot, and dressed in a clean white cotton shirt and loose cotton trousers. The cotton was extraordinarily soft, and tailored to his body. A look out the window revealed he was in a one room cottage in a clearing in a forest. The table in the corner had a set of spangled owl-feather quills, a black marble inkwell, and an open, leather bound book with fine, tight-woven cloth pages. The pages had nothing written on them. That _hurt_. Okay, he probably wasn't dead. He figured if this was death, then he wouldn't feel any pain. So where _was_ he? His side throbbed sharply. Odd…he hadn't moved any. There it was again…and again…and-

"Arrrggghhh!" Tristan jolted awake as pain smashed through his side. A very startled Bors jumped and dropped him, which just resulted in more pain. His head decided to remind him of the injury there, and throbbed both on the deep cut, and with a massive headache. His sides throbbed, his arms throbbed, his legs throbbed, _everything _throbbed.

"He's alive!" Bors bellowed, "Galahad, Gawain, he's alive!" Tristan gave a very unmanly and undignified whimper as Bors' voice caused his head to throb even worse. He heard voices, talking excitedly, approaching. One was definitely woad. The other two sounded like Galahad and Gawain. Tristan groaned as his left side gave another painful throb. _I'd rather have stayed dead. _

"Tristan, can you hear me?" Bors' voice was surprisingly gentle; then again, the man was raising eleven children. "Tristan? If you can hear me-"

"Yeah, yeah." His voice was a ragged croak.

"It's good to have you back." Bors grinned. Where was Isolde? Had she left? Tristan couldn't see her anywhere.

"Tristan! We thought you were gone!" Galahad dropped by his side with Gawain. Both leaned over him, worried. Tristan managed a grunt.

"We'll need two horses and an improvised stretcher. Make it out of spears." Bors was speaking to the woad.

"Hawk" Tristan croaked. "She left" Gawain told him uncertainly, "Because, see, we thought you were dead." Tristan had no more strength. He closed his eyes and grunted. "Just sit queit" Gawain muttered, "We'll have you to the healers in no time." A few minutes later, one of the woads grabbed Tristan's shoulder as they lifted him, and he mercifully blacked out before he could scream.

_Two Weeks Later_

Tristan stirred as the scent of baked apples reached his keen nose. The scent teased him, compelling him to seek out the treat that smelled so good. He followed the scent out of the darkness of sleep, stopping just shy of full consciousness. He drifted, unwilling to leave the warm oblivion of sleep for reality, even if there were baked apples very close by. Eventually, however, he drifted nearer and nearer to wakefullness, until sharp pains all over his body brought him into reality.

He groaned and reluctantly opened his eyes. The light blinded him, and he quickly shut them. Mentally gritting his teeth, he forced one, then the other eye open, and this time kept them open. Once his eyes adjusted he saw he was in his own room at the fort, and the baked apples were in fact on his desk, in the opposite corner. Beside the bowl of apples was a tall jug of water. Tristan sighed and closed his eyes. He quite simply didn't have the strength to move even just across the small room. If he stayed still, his body would hurt less. _But I'm so thirsty._ Wearily, he rested his hands on the bed beside him and flexed his arms, slowly raising himself.

That he could sit up by himself spoke a great deal about his recovery. For most of the week after the battle, his body had been ravaged by fever and infection, and he had writhed in dementia. He was extraordinarily lucky to have lived through it, and without serious after-effects. He would have a slight permanent limp from where the muscle in his leg had gotten infected from the saxon's damnable knife, and a thick, rippled scar on his side from his own sword being thrust into his side. Actually, all the saxon-inflicted wounds had scarred, but most were small, barely noticable.

Moving slowly so he wouldn't strain his tired muscles, Tristan swung his feet to the floor and stood. He swayed briefly before finding his balance, and took a weary step toward the apples. The floor neither tilted nor spun, thankfully, so he continued to the apples. A note beside the bowl caught his eye, and a brief smile tugged his lips as he recognized Sarmatian writing. Someone, he suspected Arthur himself, had taken the time and effort to write the small note in his native Halani, a difficult language, spoken and written, for non-tribesmen to learn. Reaching for the note, he popped a slice of roasted apple in his mouth, and applied himself to the note. It read:

_Tristan, _

_As you've probably guessed, being the ever-observant scout, we now have a firm alliance with the woads. What someone probably neglected to mention is that I have been named King by Woads, Britons, and Romans alike. I have ordered that you are to be allowed to rest without being bothered with questions and tons of information on the state of the country. Thus, you are uninformed as to all that has happened since the battle. A scout is only useful so long as he is informed of all around him, so I shall set down the events of the past two weeks in as concise and understandable a manner as possible. The Saxons were defeated. Rome has left Britain entirely, with due help from the Islanders. Fine language aside, we had to kick their sorry asses off our land, and chase them all the way to their stupid boats, to ensure that they actually left. Romans! I humbly apologise to you for all the times I've defended them. We've formed an alliance with the Woads. This is shortly to be concreted by my marriage to Guinevere. (Stop looking so disgusted. Just because you would die before you'd allow yourself to 'fall into the marriage trap' doesn't mean I won't enjoy it.) You've become a much loved-and still feared-hero, both because of your involvement in the battle, and your killing of the Dread Demon Leader of the Devil-Possessed Saxon Hordes. (Go ahead and laugh, it is a perfectly ridiculous description, but there's no getting rid of it now.) You're now something of a local saint actually. I tried to explain that naming you a saint would only offend you, but nobody listened. So not only are you a hero and a legend, you're a religious figure. (Bors, by the way, offered to assist you when you massacre them to defend your honor.) And I firmly order you not to take advantage of your sainthood. Even if it would be particularly funny. Now comes the heaviest news, and the bit I am most reluctant to impart. During the battle, Lancelot was slain whilst defending Guinevere from the younger saxon leader. He did take the saxon bastard with him. We've already had his funeral, but there will a private remembrance ceremony held for the knights alone as soon as you are well enough to participate. I'm unsure how to broach this topic to you, so I will be blunt. Bors, Gawain, and Galahad have chosen to stay in Britain, and wish to pledge their service to me. Will you do the same? I admit that I do not think I could find another scout as skilled, and trustworthy, as you. It seems manipulative to mention it, but there is no home waiting for you in Sarmatia, no family. It seems reasonable to stay here, where you have a family and a home. If you wish to go, I will not hold you back, but I will go so far as to implore you to stay. Think on it. Last, but certainly not least, Hawk has been seen in the trees near the fort often, and even by my own person, though she will come to no one. Number four has taken to leaving food on the edges of the forest for her, though she does not eat it. I think she is waiting for you. That is all for now. The knights will be having dinner at the round table tonight, if you wish to join us. I hope you will be well soon. Arthur. _

Tristan sighed and ate another slice of apple. Judging by the light, it was already evening. He should have just enough time to go and get Hawk before dinner. He limped over to his chest.

By the time Tristan limped into the round table hall, dinner had already started. Arthur smiled warmly at him and said,

"Welcome back and well returned, Tristan Saxonslayer." Tristan slumped into his seat and scowled at Arthur.

"Tristan _what?_" He snapped.

"It's your new title" Arthur explained, "It was that or Saint Sir Tristan. I thought you would prefer the former to the latter."

"Lyonesse. You know that's my name" he growled. "Of course" Arthur smiled, "But that's not what half of Britain calls you." Tristan chose to take a sip of wine rather than respond. "Knights" Arthur said after the meal was finished, "We have many things to discuss. We'll start with the newly formed alliance with the woads…"

For two hours, the Knights discussed the political and public affairs of Britain. They talked over the alliance with the woads, Arthur's upcoming nuptials, Rome's exodus, the relations between Britons, Woads, and left behind Romans, and the uniting of the land. Then, they came to the subject most important to the Knights.

"Knights, three of you have informed me of your desire to remain, and be Sentinals of Britain. You wish to pledge to serve me as Knights. I am reluctant to accepts these oaths for the reason that these oaths were what bound you to Rome. Will you, so recently escaping slavery, be so willing to bind yourselves back in? I do not want to be your captor." Arthur looked at each of them in turn.

"Before we discuss our oaths, we should hear Tristan's decision" Gawain announced. He turned to Tristan. "What of you? Will you stay with us?" he queried.

"I must" Tristan replied. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Tristan kept talking. "If I don't , you'll have to use some _woadish_ scout, and you'll get utterly lost and stumble straight into a trap, like the fumble-footed warrior jocks you are. And then I won't even have the pleasure of fighting and killing your trappers with you." The knights laughed.

"You are all decided, then." Arthur stated. "Very well. I accept your oaths as knights of Britain. I must admit, brothers, that I would have been lost without you. After all, a man should be judged not by his status, but by the company he keeps. Were I to be judged by you, I would be as a god."

The knights stood as one.

"To Britain" Gawain said. "To Arthur" Bors announced. "To Freedom" Galahad stated. "To Brotherhood" Arthur declared. They looked to Tristan, but he was silent. Then slowly, he raised his goblet. "To Peace" he said, and they drank.

"Peace" Arthur mused, "Not something I would have expected you to toast to, Tristan."

Tristan shrugged. He suddenly felt unwilling to speak. All that needed to be said had been said. Now, he felt overwhelmingly tired, as if he could sink into his chair and sleep right there at the table. Arthur seemed to read his mind, for he said,

"Tristan, I think it is time you retired for tonight. We have kept you here for four and more hours, and I am sure you were out for an hour previously to get Hawk. You should rest."

"As should we all" Bors agreed. "Tomorrow, we wake as Knights."

"Till then, good night" Arthur smiled.

Tristan was too tired to protest when Arthur had Gawain and Galahad walk him to his room.

_Three Weeks Later_

Tristan shifted his stance on the slope, taking a little more weight off his not-quite-fully-healed leg. Directing his attention below, he watched as Merlin performed the wedding ceremony over Arthur and Guinevere. He finished chanting and presented the cup to Arthur, who drank from it and presented it to Guinevere, who did the same. Then Merlin announced the unity, the people cheered, and the archers nocked and drew their bows. Tristan had been chosen to be among the archers as the representative of the knights, a great honor among the woads, because he was the best archer of the four. He drew smoothly and strongly, and not a person guessed that this was the first day he'd even tried to use his long recurve, or that his shoulder still hurt when he drew. The second signal came, and the archers released a fiery cloud of arrows into the sky. When the arrows curved downwards and plunged downwards into the sea, Tristan's flew the farthest of all.

END


End file.
